Five Times Brian Kinney Saved Justin
by Gandalf3213
Summary: ...And one time Justin got to return the favor.
1. The First Time

_"Grief is the price we pay for love." **Elizabeth II**_

**The First Time**

Justin ran into Chris Hobbes while waiting for Brian to get off work.

The Prom was two months in their past. Two months, and Justin could still remember turning, seeing Brian's face, so incredibly open, so incredibly scared (and Brian Kinney doesn't _do_ scared. He's the biggest whore in Pittsburgh. The most successful, too. Scared is not in his vocabulary…until it is. Until there is a bat coming right for Justin's head.)

Just the sight of his attacker makes Justin feel dizzy, sick, as if the world has narrowed to just the two of them, and he's helpless in the face of the one who had so obviously, so ignorantly, wanted him dead – and had gotten off scot-free for it.

For a moment, he thought of running, of leaving his post in front of Brian's building despite the fact that he'd spent most of his morning planning for the expression on Brian's face when he came out of the office and saw Justin waiting for him, a whole night of romance – exactly what Brian professed to hating, exactly what he needed every once in a while – ready to go. But Brian's voice was in his head, in his ear, seductive and angry, that quiet rage that came through in his every action. "Fuck them." The voice said. And Justin stood his ground.

Hobbes was making a beeline for him, sickly sweet smile too large on his face. And there were his cronies, trailing behind. And suddenly Justin thought of those Animal Planet programs he used to watch with his sister, when the wounded gazelle was stalked on the Serengeti by a while pride of lions, all hell-bent on killing it. Justin took a deep breath, clutched his bag to him, a lifeline. He bit his lip and stared at the huge glass building, praying that Brian would come out…

But it was already too late.

"Look what we have here, boys." Hobbes drawled, and Justin backed into Brian's car, determined not to hyperventilate right here on a crowded street. Still, his traitorous hand shook. He stuffed it in his pocket. "This fag's the reason I can't play summer league. Gotta spend by time at that old folk's home with all the queers that got what was coming to them."

"Get a life, Hobbes." Justin growled. He could feel that old panic well inside of him, and suddenly in was a month ago and he was freaking out when Brian kissed his collarbone, his neck, his lips. He would _not_ go back to that, not after all this progress. Not after Brian had done so much for him.

"_I_ should get a life?" Hobbes's snort of laughter was cue for the rest of his cronies to chuckle manically. "What are you doing outside of Liberty Avenue? Waiting for your boyfriend?"

"Yes." Justin said, sticking his chin out defiantly. "Why? Jealous?"

And suddenly Hobbes's hand was closing around his throat and he was being slammed into Brian's car. It wasn't deserted – there were people who probably could have seen the fight from the street, but Justin had realized long ago that adults had a senseless distrust, almost fear, of teenagers. They would not interfere in this, only pass by and shake their heads, wondering what was becoming of this violent generation.

A blade was at his throat, disguised by a long sleeve, so out of place in this August weather, and Justin realized that he could be killed right here in front of Brian's building. And he'd just wanted to see his boyfriend.

Hands grabbed his flailing arms, pressed against his stomach, pinning him to the car. Hobbes's sweaty palm muffled his scream and Justin bit down on it savagely. A homophobes' blood poured into his mouth and Hobbes yelled, slugged him.

"Just get it over with, Chris!" One of the guys shouted. They were in the parking lot, but that doesn't mean that people couldn't have been looking out windows, that someone couldn't enter at the wrong moment and see five guys killing a defenseless fag.

The blade cut through skin and Justin closed his eyes. You don't see your whole life when you're about to die, he realized at that moment. Just the things you love. Right now, with his eyes closed, Hobbes's hand over his mouth, the henchmen bruising his torso and wrists with their meaty hands…right then he saw Brian. Brian sitting at the Liberty Diner, eyes dancing as he pinched Justin's ass as he whisked by. Brian leaning over him as he drew, distracting him (and distractions from Brian are always welcome.) Brian at Babylon, dancing. Brain in bed, his strong hands gripping Justin by the shoulders as he entered him…

And suddenly the blade was gone and Justin could _breathe_. The hands at his wrists were pried away one by one and he collapsed against the car, choking, hand to his throat, trying to stop the blood that was already staining his shirt, spreading like ink, like coffee, like something that was not his life essence.

He didn't look up, couldn't catch his breath in time, couldn't reconcile the fact that he was alive when a minute ago he'd been sure that he would be another statistic on another list, another young gay dead. He wouldn't have even made the papers…

If Justin had looked up, he would have seen Brian's face as he punched one guy, whirled and hit another on the back, kneed another in the balls (it turns out all those hours at the gym had been for more than just picking up another good piece of ass.) He would have seen Brian as the hero he would draw him months later, as Rage, defending his young admirer JT. He would have seen Brian exacting his revenge on Hobbes for putting him in the hospital, on the world not letting them have some goddamn peace once in a while.

When all the guys had gone, melting away into the dingy streets of Pittsburgh…that's when Brian reached down and roughly brought Justin to his feet. He was shaking him. "Alright? Are you okay? Justin?"

"Stop shaking me." Justin said, one hand still to his throat. It was still bleeding. "Brian, please."

And then Brian's hands were gone. He'd whirled, stalked away a few feet, and let out a scream. Justin could only watch. He could still feel blood pumping in his ears.

Brian knelt and started stuffing Justin's papers back into his bag, but the drawings had been scattered all over the parking lot. He'd brought it because it was some of his best work, because he'd wanted to show off to Brian over dinner. Now he could care less about the drawings. Let the wind have them.

Brian's hand was shaking as he tossed the bag back towards Justin, who made a feeble attempt to catch it and failed miserably. The bag landed with a soft thump, a loud sound in an empty lot.

"I'm sorry," Justin said miserably, because Brian was still standing away from him, not holding him, comforting him, not even trying to stem the bleeding. And Justin didn't blame him. How many times would Brian Kinney have to save his life? "They must have been following me, but I didn't see…and then I didn't run because I was waiting for you. I'm sorry…"

He looked at the ground, blinking tears away. He suddenly felt very tired and very, very scared. The adrenaline was working its way out of his system, no doubt, but it just made him feel more vulnerable than being trapped under Chris Hobbes's sharp knife.

Strong arms wrapped around him, and Brian was burying his face in Justin's hair, holding him as he sobbed like a child sobs, with heaving shoulders and hitched breathing. "Shh…" Brian said, his voice muffled by Justin's hair, "It's over, it's okay. It's over. I'm here."

Justin clutched at him, and blood glued them together. Sometime later, Brian would rip the sleeve off his jacket to use as a bandage before he drove like a maniac to the hospital, where Justin would wait for two hours before getting eleven stitches and being told by three different doctors that it was frankly amazing that none of his vocal chords had been severed.

Sometime later, Justin would pull Brian on top of him, ignoring the older man when he said that, perhaps, Justin shouldn't exert himself tonight. Justin just wanted to feel close to somebody. He wanted to remember why it was that he'd ever left the safety of the closet. He wanted someone to assure him he'd made the right choice.

Sometime later, Justin would fall asleep and Brian would stare at the way his hair seemed to stand out even in a dark room, would stare at the white, white bandage on his throat, the black and blue rings around his wrists that Emmett and Ted would proclaim were positively kinky. And Brian would remember how he felt, seeing Justin being attacked for a second time right in front of him.

But that was sometime later, sometime in the future that came after the here and now, with Justin, shaking, bleeding, crying on the hot pavement and Brian holding him, because that was all he could do, because he was watching his young lover break in front of him all over again.

And he swore on that hot day, with Justin's blood making a puddle on his shirt like a hole over his heart, that he would always be there. Danger seemed to follow Justin at every turn, so Brian would just always have to be there to save him.

**.***.**

**This is our old favorite show, and watching the whole series through again (thank you, internet) made us realize how important this thing was. So, if there's anyone out there who still likes Queer as Folk...well, please review.**


	2. The Second Time

_"Love is not consolation. It is light." **Fredrich Nietzsche**_

**The Second Time**

As always, Babylon was too loud, the colors too bright, the drinks too strong. And that was exactly how Brian liked it. It was why he kept coming back.

And tonight he had a special mission to convince Mikey that Ben was not good for him. There were better things out there than a Positive who was old and educated and full of himself. There was fun. And dancing. And all it took was one fuck up for Michael to get the death sentence, too.

So he pulled his oldest friend out onto the dance floor, ignoring Ben's not-so-amused glare as he grinded against the shorter man. Mike laughed, as always, eyes dancing, and Brian almost kissed him.

He liked kissing Michael. It wasn't like kissing a stranger – he knew and trusted Mike, knew how his lips would meld, hot and heavy, with his own. He liked the feeling of kissing someone he'd known since childhood. Plus, he always got horny when he danced in a crowd of gyrating men.

But just as he leaned forward he remembered Justin, his earnest face as he tried to be so mature about being in a relationship with the biggest whore in Pittsburgh. No romance, only fucking, and Brian was good at that part (in fact, he'd been the one to introduce the kid to it.) One of the conditions: no kissing anyone on the lips except for each other.

So he turned his kiss to the side, brushed his lips against Michael's cheek, and if Mike noticed this sudden deviation he said nothing about it, just laughed and danced, spinning.

When he spun back around, Brian was disappearing into the back room, looking for someone he could kiss on the lips.

The light was different here, and shadows were more pronounced than light. Brian almost went back to the dance floor, because who was he kidding, really? He may love the back room, but the twat never went there unless Brian was with him. He always seemed happier out front, dancing with the other silly girls.

The memory of Justin's hair as he danced, usually half-naked, pressing up against his body…fuck it. He was too hard to turn back now. And this wasn't the back room for nothing…

When he rounded the corner, he saw the familiar golden hair out of the corner of his eye and turned, a smirk already plastered across his face. So Justin had come here after all. "Sunshine -" He began.

And then he saw. He saw the hand on the back of Justin's head, holding the boy in place as a huge, beefed-up piece of shit stuck his tongue down the kid's throat. He saw the older guy lifting Justin off the ground, pulling down his tight jeans (the ones that Brian had bought for him, because Justin had tried them on and his ass had just been _begging_ to be fucked) fumbling with his own pants…

Worst of all, he saw the absolute _terror_ in Justin's eyes as he fought, the disgust as that tongue probed his mouth. He was fighting, but it was a kitten versus a tiger, a puppy versus a wolf. He had no chance.

And no one else was even _looking_. Struggling, domination, rough play – it went on so often in the back room of Babylon. It was why people went there in the first place. Another twat being taken by a man twice his age was the rule here, not the exception.

Brian was a lover, not a fighter (and a damn good lover at that) but he saw red when the asshole stuck his hand down the front of Justin's pants, used the other hand to pin the younger boy's wrists to the wall. Brian charged forwards, inserted himself between Justin and the beefed-up guy.

"He's not interested." Brain hissed, feeling, rather than seeing, Justin try to stop himself from having a panic attack.

The guy's biggest mistake was addressing Justin after Brian arrived. "You his whore, then? What is this – he can parade his boytoy around here as much as he wants, but god forbid anyone else gets a piece of your ass?"

Justin pressed up against Brian, cowering away from this guy who still looked like he didn't know how to take "no" for an answer. "Why don't you leave now before I rearrange your face?" Brian growled. He wouldn't have even issued the warning, but he wanted to concentrate on Justin, not this piece of shit.

"You getting protective of the little slut, now? Whatever." The guy turned to go, then tossed over his shoulder, casually, a feral grin on his face as his eyes sought Justin's, "I'll catch you next time, loverboy."

Justin's hands scrambled for Brian's shoulders, but it was too late. Brian had already darted forward, and he slammed the guy's head against the wall. It was only then that the other couples started taking notice of the scene.

Three punches later, Brian made sure that he'd broken the guy's jaw, knocked out a tooth. He kneed him in the crotch for good measure, then pushed him aside, panting hard. No one threatened his boyfriend. No one.

"Justin." He said, holding out a hand for the young blond boy, who didn't look like he could move a foot, let alone get out of the back room, out of Babylon. Brian sighed impatiently and grabbed Justin's wrist, yanking him behind, still lost in the fury he felt when he walked in on the near-attack.

"Brian…" Justin started when they were safely back at the loft. "Brian, please look at me. I'm sorry. I didn't want him to kiss me -" He broke off, a sob cutting through his words, and Brian whirled around to find Justin sinking onto the couch, fighting back tears.

"Fuck," Brian muttered, stalking away. He didn't know what to _do_, and could still feel nothing but that goddamned fucking fear he felt, seeing Justin being taken so easily like that. And he couldn't deal with tears.

"I'm sorry." Justin said again, so miserably that Brian did look at him this time.

"Do you know what could have happened?" Brian questioned, and Justin flinched despite the fact that Brian had made a conscious effort not to shout. "You're not me, kid. You need to know how to…how to protect yourself in situations like that."

"I tried." Justin said to the floor. "He was just so much bigger than me. I'm -"

He was going to apologize again. Fuck it all. This is _so_ not the night Brian had been planning. He made an executive decision and covered Justin's mouth before the _sorry_ part could get out. The kiss was soft and short, because Justin pulled away almost immediately.

"I'm sorry." Justin said, apologizing for something completely different now. "I just…give me a second."

Brian nodded and took the wrist he had grabbed so harshly back at Babylon in his hand. It was blue and swollen, and he felt a wave of guilt wash over him for contributing to the injury. He brought the hand up to his lips and kissed it gently. "Where else?" He whispered, not willing to explore for himself and risk Justin pull away from him again, look at him like he was something to be feared.

"My hip…" Justin whispered, and Brian dived in head-first, kissing the huge bruise that spread across the blonde's hip and lower back, because if he kissed it then he was doing something other than thinking about different ways to murder that bastard. Still, he found himself wishing he'd done more than break his jaw.

"My neck." And there it was, a hand-shaped bruise on the back of Justin's neck. Brian kissed it, slowly trailing upwards towards his mouth, until the two were eye-level.

"I didn't want to kiss him." Justin murmured again, and Brian noticed that there were still tears in his eyes. "He just…started in on me."

"I know." Brian said, taking his boyfriend's lips, kissing away the taste of that other guy, kissing away the fear, the pain. Justin tensed in his arms at first, and Brian had just time enough to think _please_. Please, Justin, don't freak out, not now, not on him. Please, don't be afraid, because Brian would never, could never hurt him.

And in that crossroads, that split second where Justin could have pulled away with more murmured apologies, memories of the back room of Babylon rising like a wall between them…at that crossroads, Justin chose trust, chose love, and leaned into the kiss, reciprocating passionately, desperately.

Brian held him, and loved him, and panic and fear and pain and betrayal and hurt were all pushed aside for one night. Tomorrow, Brian would take Justin to the gym and make sure he signed up for self-defense classes. Tomorrow, Brian would whisper quiet words about how fucking much his Sunshine meant to him.

But that night was just for them, two men and four walls and a bed big enough to hold their fears and sorrows, big enough to hold their love, too.

**Please review.**


	3. The Third Time

_"To love is to suffer. To avoid suffering, one must not love. But, then, one suffers from not loving. So, to love is to suffer, to not love is to suffer, to suffer is to suffer. To be happy is to love, to be happy, then, is to suffer, but suffering makes one unhappy, therefore, to be unhappy, one must love, or love to suffer, or suffer too much happiness - I hope you're getting this down." **Woody Allen**_

**The Third Time**

Justin had never been good at writing. Diction and rhetoric made him dizzy, and words tended to swim on the page in front of him, their tiny black letters blurring together until they had less than no meaning.

What he was good at was drawing. He doodled in margins of paper, made elaborate sketches in his books – people mostly. Justin will never understand those who prefer to draw landscapes, skylines, unliving things. People made life interesting. People were the things that mattered.

While other boys played football, baseball, basketball, ran track, swam relays, Justin – always fit, an athlete and competitor at heart – would draw them, those beautiful young men in the prime of life with their sliding, sinewy muscles and careless grace. In time, he had whole books filled with these pictures. In time, teachers and students would peer over his shoulder and call him an artist. And in time, Justin would believe them. Given a chance, he would spend his whole day drawing these young bodies (well, half the day. Given the chance, he'd spend the other half fucking them.)

The whole bald, awful truth? The second thing he thought of when the doctors said he wouldn't be able to use his hand correctly ever again was how could he give a hand job good enough to get Brian back now? But that was only the second thing. The first thing was full-fledged panic. What was he to do with his life if his reason for living, his ability to create pictures, had been taken from him?

He flipped idly through his old sketchbook, stopping occasionally to look at a particular picture (he usually stopped on pictures of Brian. Brian dancing; Brian naked in bed, cigarette dangling from his mouth; Brian's sardonic, twisting smile that always, always made Justin's stomach twist into hot knots.)

Another hand splayed across the page, then gently, gently grabbed his hand. Justin held back the wince, but Brian noticed anyway and made a soft noise of apology (and no one would ever believe him on that, but it was true. Brian could be quiet and gentle and apologetic when he wanted to be.) The older man waited for Justin to look up before he kissed him, because the last thing he needed was for the young man (who was really only a boy, just eighteen.) to pull back, frightened, before he got these words out.

"You thinking about adding to that?" Brian asked, brushing his mouth against Justin's one last time and nodding at the half-finished picture below them.

"You heard the doctors." Justin said, his normally upbeat voice incredibly, terribly bitter, "I'll never be able to draw again."

"Not if you act like this," Brian agreed. "Not if you insist on skipping the exercises."

Real fear spread across Justin's all-too-young face, sending a pang straight through to the place Brian liked to claim his heart wasn't. How was this fair? A homophobic asshole murderer bashes Justin's head in and Justin is the one who has to change his life. "I don't want to." Justin said, his eyes sliding towards the ground, and Brian sighed, taking the ball that he'd shoved into his jeans pocket earlier that day out. Just the sight of it made Justin's eyes wide. Fuck. This was going to be difficult.

"I heard the doctors." Brian said, raising an eyebrow. "They said there is a chance of recovery if you use this thing three times a day. Twenty squeezes each time."

"I'm supposed to go through all this pain for just a chance?" Justin bit out, automatically defensive at the very thought of having to go through the excruciating pain of physical therapy that he'd endured at the hands of the hospital for a solid month. "Bet it all on the slight possibility that it'll all turn out fine?"

"Yeah, Justin, you are." Brian said impatiently, closing Justin's fingers around the ball so that the boy winced at the jarring movement. "Because what the fuck else are we supposed to do? This is all just one big fucking chance here. You're the one who wanted to fight for the chance that we'd have just as much rights as all the breeders out there."

"And I got my head bashed in for the trouble. I'm not doing it, Brian." Justin wrenched his hand from Brian's firm grip and cradled it to his chest, betrayal written in every line of his face. How could Brian want him to do something that caused him pain? Maybe all the naysayers were right. Maybe Brian didn't love him at all – those looks and touches and small actions that Justin had thought proved love were all just part of an elaborate fantasy Justin had created for himself.

Because why would someone who, up until this point, Justin had thought loved him, want him to deliberately hurt himself multiple times a day? Why would he encourage it, curl his aching fingers around the ball, for a possibility that would probably never come true? He was just Justin fucking Taylor, the kid who never beat the odds. The kid who would always be just a hot piece of ass.

Without his talent, without his ability to draw, he would have nothing. Nothing at all.

Brian's firm, heavy hand was on his own, and Justin turned his face, but didn't pull away when each of his throbbing fingers was gently kissed by a man without a heart. "Justin. Try." It was plaintive, as close to pleading as Brian would ever get. "I'm only doing this for you."

And because the whole thing was so unlike Brian (who was this gentle man who had walked into the loft, anyway?) and because Justin felt physically ill at the thought of just being another trick without a passion for the rest of his life, he squeezed the ball.

It would be a lie to say that it was the hardest thing he had to do. Facing Chris Hobbes after the attack was one of the hardest things to do. Choosing Brian over his own family was one of the hardest things to do. But squeezing that little ball with a hand that shook so badly he couldn't even hold a pencil for more than a scant few seconds at a time…well, a person with less motivation might have given up.

Of course, Brian Kinney's eyes locked on his, his pleased expression as he watched the tiny ball collapse in on itself under Justin's pitiful little squeeze, was probably as much motivation as this world has to offer.

"Maybe if I kiss you enough we can tackle Babylon." Brian half-joked, and Justin shuddered at the idea, then looked at the older man.

"Why are you doing this?" Justin asked, bringing his good hand up to rest on Brian's hip, looking up into his face. The face that famously gave away nothing. "What can you possibly want from me?"

The expression that crossed Brian's face was so _confused_, so openly surprised, that Justin almost smiled. Almost. He squeezed the ball again, because the physical pain was so much easier to deal with than the emotions Brian Kinney stirred within him. "Why do you want me?" He asked, pressing his forehead into Brian's shirt so he wouldn't have to look at that confusion again. "I'm…I'm broken. Defective. Crowds scare the shit out of me. I can barely get near to you without freaking out. I can't even fuck you." He let out a shaky laugh. "The two things I thought I was best at. Drawing and fucking."

"Don't do this." Brian murmured, using one slender finger to lift Justin's face. For a long moment, Justin avoided Brian's eyes. He squeezed the ball once, twice, three times, breathing in and out with each palpitation, concentrating on his hand, on the rhythm. The pain made his face twist, his heart speed up, or maybe it was this conversation, and the fact that, once he brought it all up, Brian might agree with him, and he wouldn't want anything to do with him anymore, and where the hell would Justin be then?

"Hey." Brian's lips smoothed over his, and the kiss deepened from there until it was desperate, passionate, until it was clear that Brian had something to prove. When they broke apart, Justin realized that the older man looked angry. "You're going to get better."

"What if I don't?" Justin asked quietly, "What if I'm a scared fag forever, afraid of his own shadow. Afraid of you?"

"I told you from the beginning you were supposed to be afraid of me." Brian said, that smile twisting the side of his mouth again, and just that familiar expression managed to stir something deep within Justin. "Weren't you listening?"

"But…there's better guys for you." Justin reasoned, squeezing the ball again in his anxiety.

"Don't I know it." Brian sighed, his hands slipping down to untuck Justin's shirt, slide open the button on his pants. And for the first time since The Prom, since The Bashing, Justin wanted to feel Brian Kinney inside of him more than anything else in the world. "But somehow I keep always coming back to my Sunshine."

Justin pulled away from Brian's kisses just long enough to tug off the older man's shirt, ball still clasped firmly in hand. When the rubber rolled across his skin, Brian looked down at the ball in time to see Justin squeeze it one last time before the blond let go of it. He'd need both hands for what he wanted to do to Brian.

"Twenty."

"What?"

"You just squeezed the ball for the twentieth time." Brian probed his tongue into Justin's ear, sending shivers down the younger man's spine. "Now why don't we get to some real exercise?"

"You were counting?" Justin hadn't even been counting. He'd just squeezed the ball because it was something do with his hand. And the pain that had come from that action was not even comparable to the pain he'd felt in the hospital. And that probably had a lot to do with the man in front of him, and the fact that he was slowly (so fucking slowly) rolling down Justin's pants.

That night, Brian Kinney made love to Justin (and, yes, Justin does know the difference between being fucked and making love. This was love, even if it would take four years and a few more horrible accidents for Brian to admit it.) It was something Justin had thought he would never do again.

Somewhere in between Brian slamming him on the couch and Brian rearing over top of him on the bed, the ball was pressed in his hand again. Justin didn't notice, and squeezed it without thinking, and Brian kept count again as Justin came.

So, really, it was Brian who was responsible for giving Justin the artist and Justin the gorgeous party boy his identity back.

**Please review.**


	4. The Fourth Time

**A/N: Slight AU of season 3, episode 13. Probably should see/know that episode first.**

"_And I can't live with or without you." **U2**_

**The Fourth Time**

"What? I'm just helping your mom find that dumpster boy." Brian said, leaning against the doorframe, glass in hand. Michael was staring at him, mouth half-open. "Don't look at me like that." The ex-ad exec snapped, "If I was younger I'd pick him up myself. I'm just not his type."

"So you send _Justin_ in?" Michael gaped, eyes darting to the blond sitting alone at the bar. "You're letting him pick up some guy that we _know_ is a murderer? We _know_ he has killed before!"

"Stop being so melodramatic, Mikey. I'm here to look out for him."

"And you're such great back up." Michael snorted, rolling his eyes into his own drink, torn between going home to Ben and a large bed and sticking around to make sure Brian didn't kill this dirty cop once the fucker got his hands on their Sunshine.

"It worked okay last time." Brian grinned wolfishly, and anyone else wouldn't have been able to see the goddamned _fear_ in that expression. They were both remembering the last time Brian had played back up for a certain tag-along artist, both remembering that night when Brian had broken down in a hospital corridor. "Anyway, the kid practically begged to do it."

"Of course he did. They _all_ do." Michael bumped his friend's shoulder. "Just keep an eye on him, huh?"

"You talking about me?" A pint-sized hustler suddenly appeared at Brian's elbow. "Because I totally wouldn't mind your eyes on me all night."

"Fuck off, kid. This isn't for you." Brian growled, and Michael could almost see him baring his teeth. Even Justin, ten meters away at the bar, glanced around at his boyfriend's harsh tone. Michael grinned into his drink. Sometimes, Brian was so transparent – he was so fucking _protective_ of this little twat that he wouldn't even introduce as his boyfriend.

"Who you watching?" Hunter asked, following Brian's gaze to the blond at the bar. "That amateur? Really? How much did you pay him to do your dirty work?"

"Hunter…" Michael began, but Brian cut him off.

"You think you can do better?"

"Brian!" Michael squaked, now rounding on him. Exactly how many teens was Brian Kinney going to put in the line of fire tonight?

"I know I can." Hunter said, boyish confidence oozing from every pore, and Michael knew he was a lost cause. He'd seen too many boys look at Brian like that. All the man had to do was snap his fingers and he had people queuing up to throw themselves in the line of fire for him. "But that's so boring. Why don't we have some fun?"

It was so unexpected, Hunter's tug, that Brian actually stumbled out of the bar with the boy. He lost his footing and tripped down the couple of stairs. Michael smartly snagged his glass in midair and placed it on the table before hurrying out of the bar after the stray his boyfriend had insisted on bringing in.

"I already told you, kid. I'm. Not. Interested." Brian jerked his hand out of Hunter's grip, and Michael recognized the fire that danced in Brian's eyes now. It was the you-so-do-not-want-to-piss-me-off look he got whenever he was _this close_ to losing it.

But Hunter was locked in the throes of a crush, and would not be denied. He snaked an arm around Brian's waist, raised one coy eyebrow…

"I'm gone." Brian said, pushing away from the kid and pounding back up the stairs.

Michael sighed and put a restraining hand on Hunter's shoulder. "You don't want to go there." He warned, one eye still on the doorway. So he saw Brian's face when he realized Justin was missing. He saw Brian duck back out, look at him and Hunter standing there, saw his mouth round in an _O_ of surprise. Heard the "fuck!" even though there were three or four people between them, even though it wasn't shouted.

He watched Brian's heart break. It is as simple as that.

"He's gone." It was Hunter who said it first, who averted his gaze and slammed a hand repeatedly against faded jeans. "Fucking amateurs. They always screw up."

"The bartender says that he got picked up. Took all of five seconds." Brian was still staring at Michael, eyes searching for something Michael couldn't give him. Justin.

Michael touched Brian's shoulder. "We'll find him." He promised, not noticing as Hunter melted away into the night. Let him. Michael had no particular affection for Justin outside of comic books, but he was the world to Brian. And Michael would do anything for his best friend. "And you have to admit, if he picked the guy up in those couple of seconds we were out here, he must be pretty great."

"He's too fucking pretty for his own good." Brian said, voice like steal, and Michael clamped down hard on his wrist, was pulled back through the bar, out the back door.

"Are we seriously chasing after him?" Michael hissed as they flew down the alley. Brian was knocking over trashcans, cursing, raging, and now turned on him.

"Of course we're chasing after him!" Brian yelled, yanking his hand from Michael's grip.

"I thought we were going to call the police!"

"He _is_ the police!" And then Brian sped up, leaving Michael to trail behind, as always.

They heard it before they saw it – the car idling at the end of the alley, a fight between a man with a deep, coarse voice and the unmistakable frightened yells of Justin Taylor. He was struggling against strong arms, and losing.

"I won't pay more, you little shit. You give me trouble? You attract attention? You're dead." The ex-cop shouted loud enough for Brian and Michael to hear him, although they were still a hundred feet away.

"Brian, no!"

But he was already charging the man, head down, fists raised, and Michael's call of alarm was interrupted by Justin's overwhelming relief. "Brian!"

The ex-cop got one good swing in, and it probably would have been okay from there if it wasn't another bat, this one kept in the back seat of the car, within arms' reach. He hit Justin over the head and the blond _crumpled_.

Brian, in hot pursuit, leapt at the dirty cop in a flying tackle that would have made all those jocks that had razzed in him high school jealous, but he couldn't keep him pinned for long. Luckily for everyone involved, he followed his old pattern and chose the coward's way out, fleeing instead of fighting, leaping in the car and gunning the engine, the tires skidding by inches from Justin's head.

"Fuck!" Brian yelled, a hand to his lip, which was bleeding and would swell. He looked around blearily and saw Michael already kneeling over Justin.

The flashback was unavoidable, and suddenly they weren't outside at all but in a parking garage, and it was just unconscious Justin and worried Brian, no Michael, no help, no nothing.

"Brian!"

Michael's frightened yell snapped the other man out of his reverie and he scooted forward, ignoring the pebbles that cut into his hands. "Justin…" he said, taking the boy's head onto his lap and cradling it. There was no blood this time – the swing couldn't have been so strong with Justin inches away – and already brilliant blue eyes were blinking up at him.

"Brian…" The quiet moan of pain wrenched the heart that Brian Kinney always denied having, and he used one hand to smooth the boy's hair.

"It's okay." Brian said, looking at Michael. His friend must have noticed the wild look in his eyes, because he nodded and took out his cell phone.

"Police? Hospital?"

"No hospital…" Justin begged from his position on the ground, and he looked so completely pitiful that Brian found himself nodding before the words were even really out of his mouth. "But…I scratched him…evidence."

"I'm calling Ben." Michael said firmly, and Brian acquiesced to this. Ben had a car, and, more importantly, was large enough to help carry Justin back up to the loft. Come to think of it, the Professor would probably know a thing or two about preserving evidence, too.

Justin was talking again, his voice soft and dazed.

"What did you say?" Brian asked, leaning close. He kissed Justin's cheek impulsively, and didn't know if the tears on his lips were from the kid or him.

"You weren't there. Why weren't you there? The guy finally came and…I thought he just wanted a blow job or something. And then he was dragging me down the alley…Brian? Where were you?"

Brian could only shake his head, and the tears were definitely from him now – they were pouring down his face in earnest. Tears of fear, for what could have happened, for what was about to happen, for the fear Justin had felt when he looked behind him and the guy who had put him up to this was suddenly gone.

"Don't leave me." Justin said suddenly, and a hand, weak as a kitten, touched the back of Brian's neck and drew him close.

"Never." Brian vowed between kisses. His heart was still pounding in his ears, in his throat, and he meant the word that he finally let out of his mouth. Never again. His fucking ridiculous schemes would never put Justin in danger again.

**Please review.**


	5. The Fifth Time

**A/N: Slight AU of season 2, episode 14. Probably should see/know that episode first.**

_"I gotta know if your sweet love is gonna save me." **The Eagles**_

**The Fifth Time**

Babylon was full of drugs, so much so that it was just another part of the game. E was like candy, and Brian and Emmett and even normally uptight Michael would take it at least five or six times a week. No one really even noticed when Justin started taking it, too.

But Justin was so allergic to so many different drugs that he took them only rarely, and only when he knew for absolute certain what drug they were, because he was a guy who could die in minutes if he swallows the most innocuous things…Tylenol, Penicillin, Codeine. So he was always careful. Always.

Except for that night. The party that Sap threw was so not his idea of a good time, and after about a half-hour Justin became really uncomfortable (and he was never uncomfortable around hot, mostly-naked guys). Maybe it was the way people looked at him – not like those hot guys who would stare at him when he danced in Babylon, where they would look at him appreciatively, noting the smooth hardness of his body, wondering when they'd be able to pull that hot ass away from Brian Kinney.

Here, he was another object, like the furniture, or one of the many sex toys that was strewn around the apartment. People would come over and touch his shoulders, his cheeks, slide a hand up his shirt, and he wasn't cherry, or anything. He didn't mind good-looking men pawing him, but here, in this place…there was something wrong about it.

And then those _drinks_. The drinks that Sap pressed into his hands and he drank without thinking, hoping the alcohol would calm his nerves. All he had to do was get through this night and he'd have the whole weekend with Brian, the whole weekend to themselves, and maybe they'd never leave the loft, maybe Justin could finish his project and then just draw Brian naked (and Brian was his favorite subject by far.)

It was when they went on the "tour," when they went into that room, and there was another one of the young dancers in a sling…that was when he really started to wonder why Sap had invited him to this party, if his true purpose was something more than just "decoration."

Unfortunately, that's also when the whole room turned upside down.

There were men all around him, now, and with his shirt off they were touching him everywhere, pulling off his jeans, coaxing him into the sling. "No," Justin said, half-laughing (but why was he laughing? He wanted to be serious. He wanted to leave.)

Something was placed under his nose. Poppers? His legs felt weird, strange, and he collapsed, the men's arms tightening around his body. "No!" He said, more forcefully this time. He said something else, too, and the other men were making noises of protest, pulling him, but he was gone, already mostly out the door.

Sap called something, and if Justin hadn't been feeling so _wrong_ he would have said "fuck you" in return, no matter what it was, but it was all he could do to stumble out of there and down the steps.

He felt weird. Weirder than weird, and the whole world was moving, shimmering, sliding. His feet could barely hold him, and although Justin knew he was only a few blocks from Brian's flat, he seriously doubted he could walk all the way there.

As he face-planted on the sidewalk on Liberty Avenue, he thought that he probably should have put his shirt on, because the pavement was kind of cold. He thought that this is kind of what his body felt like last time he had an allergic reaction, when he was thirteen and had a headache and bummed some Tylenol in school. He'd thought he was going to die then, too.

.***.

Brian never got into the car with Michael. He walked down Liberty Avenue, wondering if he should stop at Woody's and pick up some hot fuck tonight, but Babylon had mostly sated him and, besides, he wanted to get back to the loft before Justin.

Something wasn't right about this party that the little twat had insisted on going to (ironically enough, he'd gone only after Brian accused him of being a twat.) Sap was a sleaze, to be sure, and there was whispers and rumors that Brian wished he'd paid more attention to now.

So he'd slipped out of Babylon's back room (saying hi to the omnipresent Todd on his way out) around two in the morning, early enough for it to be early, and headed home, feeling positively like a breeder with a fucking predictable suburban life. Home by two. He was too young and too hot to be home by two.

He very nearly tripped over Justin's terrifyingly prone body, which was laid out in front of Brian's apartment. He couldn't have been there long – there were too many fags milling around for one not to have noticed him. But he was half-naked, and so still that Brian could only stare at the body for a second, the old flashback overlaying reality. Justin, right after the bashing. Justin smiling (and that's when he'd realized the truth in the nickname 'Sunshine') right before the bat came to his head.

Was this another bashing? Would someone be stupid enough to do it right on Liberty Avenue, in front of everyone? Brian dropped to his knees, wordless sounds already coming out of his mouth as he desperately clawed for Justin's neck. A pulse.

"Justin…" He moaned, slipping out of his jacket without thinking and putting it under the boy's bare back. "Justin, look at me. Justin!"

When those blue eyes opened…it was like something hot and sweet burst inside Brian's chest. It was like a small, soft something within in him died. "Bri -"

"Is everything all right?" Brian barely looked up at the pair who'd stopped, both dressed in club clothes with spiked hair and tight jeans.

"Call an ambulance!" Brian snapped, cradling Justin's head. He looked back down at his young lover, noticing for the first time how ragged Justin's breathing was. "Hey!" he said, jostling Justin's body ever so slightly. "Talk to me, Justin. Hey, no passing out. What happened? Are you hurt?"

There were bruises on his hips that extended above his pants, bruises that hadn't been there earlier. There were more on his shoulders, chest…but nothing, nothing that would seem to stop him from getting up to the loft. Nothing that would cause him to pass out.

"Cold…" Justin murmured, and Brian held him tighter, barely hearing the queers say something about the ambulance being only a minute away. All he could think of was that if this had anything to do with the party, he was going to kill the Sap. Period.

.***.

"Mr. Kinney? Are you listening to me?"

"Yeah, yeah, I heard you." Brian scrubbed a hand over his face, looking anxiously at the hospital bed where Justin had finally, finally fallen asleep. "So this is just an allergic reaction?"

"There was evidence of drugs in his system, and Mr. Taylor's records indicate is allergic to a great many things. It is impossible to determine which one set off the reaction."

"But he'll be okay? You said he could go home." And Brian was so freakin' tired.

"You'll need to watch him, because the symptoms can return. And we'd like to keep him observation for a couple hours." Seeing Brian's murderous glare, the exhausted doctor pinched the bridge of his nose. "Of course that's only a suggestion."

"I'll sign him out now." Brian growled, stalking off in the direction of Justin's room only to feel his wrist being grabbed by that fucking doctor. "Now what?" He barked, whirling around to realize for the first time that the doctor who had saved Sunshine's life was even younger than he was. Twenty-seven, maybe. And he looked just as tired as Brian felt.

"I just wanted to say that you did the right thing bringing your boyfriend here." The doctor's pale green eyes, a stark contrast to his dark skin, slipped down to the floor and his hand dropped from Brian's arm a second before Brian realized that this guy was _hot_. "You definitely saved his life."

Yeah, but would it have even been in peril if he hadn't known Brian in the first place? Kinney sighed and managed a tight smile for Doogie Howser. After all, it wasn't his fault that Brian's heart was beating out of his chest at the memory of Justin passed out cold on the sidewalk. Alone.

**Please review.**


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